10th Avenue Freezeout

Sorry, Bruce.

So, snow from yesterday.  Also a klonopin before bed, hence an abrupt and fairly strange (albeit true) signoff.

Still snow today.  Drifts and ice and an unwelcome reminder that age is not kind to us in a lot of ways.  But we are shoveled out - and plowed out as well, thanks to some wonderful friends / neighbors.   "Snow Plow" will soon be a line item in the winter budget because HELL YES, that made life so much easier.

Anyway.

Not a lot to say. I've got a vicious chill down to the bone, and can't warm up.  I just want to go to bed, so I'm in flannels and fuzzy socks and under three blankets and the heat is set to 66. And I'm still cold.  So I'm thinking sleep will be the kindest thing.  Possibly the most sensible thing as well.

Meantime, I am sticking to my resolve.

However, my brain is stuck in an icy, snowflake frosted rut and I hope  - really, really hope - that it thaws soon so I can come up with something more compelling and indeed, something worth reading.

I did suspect this might happen, so I took measures to protect myself from...myself, and the writer's block I come up against far too often.

I bought a book.  Not just any book - a book of writing prompts.  So when stuck, if nothing else, I can dip into the book, pull a prompt and at least churn out something.

Prompt:  Write a poem about a tomato

Oh tomato, on the vine
How I wish that you were mine

Angry orange, red and frightful
You taste like sunshine; so delightful

My tomatoes grow so green
I water, fertilize and  preen

And then, sans warning, they are dead
I stamp my feet and wrack my head

A mystery; I don't know why
they bloom upon the vine and die

They never color, never flourish
They drop to earth and turn to mush

I won't try tomatoes anymore
I'll have to buy them from the store
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